


Jeeves and the Indelicate Indecency

by triedunture



Category: Jeeves & Wooster
Genre: Angst, BDSM, Bondage, Established Relationship, Humiliation, M/M, Mindfuck, Roleplay, S&M, Sex Toys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-03
Updated: 2010-09-03
Packaged: 2017-11-02 04:40:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/365067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/triedunture/pseuds/triedunture
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is the rare fic where the warnings section says it all. Well, not ALL. Bertie and Jeeves are in love, but not very sexually satisfied. Enter some of Bertie's creativity, Jeeves' shame issues, and some downright illegal escapades.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jeeves and the Indelicate Indecency

Title: Jeeves and the Indelicate Indecency  
Pairing: Jeeves/Wooster  
Length: 11,000 words  
Warnings: S&M overtones, bondage, sex toys, humiliation, mindfucks, roleplay, angst, established relationship, Jeeves POV

Summary: It is the rare fic where the warnings section says it all. Well, not ALL. Bertie and Jeeves are in love, but not very sexually satisfied. Enter some of Bertie's creativity, Jeeves' shame issues, and some downright illegal escapades.

For [](http://violetjimjams.livejournal.com/profile)[**violetjimjams**](http://violetjimjams.livejournal.com/) , who asked for sadistic Bertie/masochist Jeeves. Thanks to [](http://lawnnun.livejournal.com/profile)[**lawnnun**](http://lawnnun.livejournal.com/) for the read-through.

<><><>

  
It so happened that, on the night in question, I was still awake when my employer, Mr Wooster, arrived home after a late-night dinner party. My copy of Emile Coué’s _Self-Mastery Through Conscious Auto-Suggestion_ was put aside for a moment as I heard the front door open and shut. I listened to Mr Wooster’s footsteps as he walked heavily down the hallway, passing his own room and drawing ever closer to my own.

I smiled to myself as I realised he was coming to me.

Mr Wooster opened my door and peeked in, his golden hair tousled with the night’s revelry. “Hullo, Jeeves,” he said. “I haven’t woken you, have I?”

“No, sir, I have been reading in bed.”

“Jolly good.”

“No guest has accompanied you home, sir?”

“None, Jeeves. Shall we?” He opened the door wider and beckoned me. I swung my feet out of bed and into my house slippers, and together we made our way to the master bedroom.

I do not intend to be coy in the telling of this tale, so I will state it plainly: Mr Wooster and I had reached an understanding some four or five months previous. Ours was no longer a mere employer-employee relationship, though of course that prior relationship had to be kept up for the sake of appearances. Hence my waiting in my own bed for my master’s return.

I had once made the mistake of retiring to the master bedroom while Mr Wooster was attending a theatre production with some of his fellow members of the Drones club. The gentlemen had returned to the Berkeley flat with him for a nightcap, ignoring Mr Wooster’s suggestions to seek refreshment elsewhere. When the sound of many voices woke me from my peaceful slumber between the Wooster-scented sheets, I’m embarrassed to say I had no recourse but to bolt under the bed and remain there until the guests took their leave, disappointed that the servant of the house was “out for the evening.” I spent hours under that bed, watching the shoes of Mr Little and Mr Winship walk past on their way to the salle de bain and trembling with the fear of discovery.

Shaken by that incident, Mr Wooster and I agreed we would keep to our separate rooms unless we were absolutely certain of our privacy. It was incredibly frustrating at the best of times, but the precautions were worthwhile for my peace of mind.

What made it all the more frustrating was that our lovemaking, as carefully planned as it was, had begun to wane in pleasure, at least from my quarter. To be sure, I still enjoyed Mr Wooster’s warm embrace and longed for the feel of his bare skin pressed against my own. Our time together was precious and wonderful; however, as of late I found it lacked something indefinable, something unmentionable.

How to explain it? Perhaps I shall put it this way: directly after that incident where I took cover under the master bed, Mr Wooster held me and murmured beautiful words of reassurance to me. And I very much appreciated it. But I would have rather he shook me roughly, cursed my foolishness, pulled my hair, or rent the damnable pyjamas from my body. Had he done something, anything, to show me he was half as frightened as I had been for our safety, I would have been less agitated.

I knew, though, that such a reaction was impossible for my gentle master. A creature that knows only light and warmth could never do such things, and I hated myself for harbouring these desires.

And so, as I followed Mr Wooster to his bed that night, I imagined it would be like every other night we spent together: sweet and tender, with no trace of the fiery passion my inner beast seemed to crave. And at first, it was as every other night had been.

Mr Wooster—Bertram, as he asked me to call him in these moments—divested me of my sleeping attire with great care. I, in turn, removed his evening clothes and laid them aside to press in the morning.

“Dearest Jeeves,” he whispered as he kissed me feather-light. “I could think of nothing but returning to you this evening. I dreamt of it through the entire bally play.”

“I am so glad to hear it, si—”

“Bertram,” he reminded me, nipping at my ear playfully. I sucked in my breath; that small gesture was enough to make me harden immediately.

“Bertram,” I echoed with a shiver. Mr Wooster did not often use his teeth during our love-making, but I wished he would make a habit of it. Still, I dared not ask for what I thought would be alien and unnatural to him. I was lucky enough to be invited into this man’s bed; I couldn’t dictate anything further.

My master manoeuvred us into our usual position, on the mattress facing each other on our sides. It had become our default pose after our first handful of erotic encounters, which were awkward affairs for one simple reason: it was so very clear Mr Wooster expected me to take control of the situation, while every fibre of my being shied away from that responsibility. And so we would kiss for hours and hours, Mr Wooster’s lips becoming desperate as he silently communicated his desire to me, and my own lips becoming numb and uncooperative. It was an impasse we couldn’t seem to break.

Finally our lovemaking progressed to a point where at least we could experience more pleasure in each other’s company, though it never satisfied me completely. And we undertook the same tactic now, facing each other on our sides. Mr Wooster rubbed his body against my own while I closed my eyes and prayed for my imagination to fill in the gaps the sensation left within me. Sometimes my master would guide my cock between his thighs and clamp me there; other times I would perform the service for him. But neither of us ever moved beyond gentle touches to each other’s sweat-slicked bodies, light kisses along each other’s necks and shoulders.

But this night, as we rocked against each other, Mr Wooster’s hands, which had been drawing lazy, comforting circles on my bare back, suddenly turned to talons. He gasped as a bolt of pleasure seemingly made him forget himself, and he clawed at my back with a ferocity that had heretofore been absent in our bed. I groaned, arching my back like a cat seeking every last trace of pleasure from the touch, my own hands tightening on his narrow hips. That must have brought my master back to himself, for he blinked at me in the low light and stammered, “O-oh Lord, Jeeves, I am sorry, I—”

“Do not be,” I hissed, crushing my mouth to his. He lay there stunned for only a moment before answering in kind, with a passion my body desperately desired. His fingernails, those shapely, clean, manicured nails, dug into my flesh once more, leaving burning trails along my back and shoulders. It was enough to make me come off against Mr Wooster’s belly, coating him with my seed.

Very rarely did our lovemaking yield such results. More often, when our peaks were reached, the business was conducted in a fist or a handkerchief or some other, more polite receptacle. I was astonished that my body had reacted so violently to the simple act of scratching, and I pulled away from my master’s kiss in order to give voice to my absolute joy. But my voice was silenced by the look on his face: a mingling of terror, disgust, possibly anger. My only comfort was that the look was not directed at me, but at Mr Wooster’s own hand, which he now held up for his examination. It was red, covered in sticky blood.

“Jeeves,” he said in a strangled tone, “I— I didn’t—”

I attempted to soothe him with a gentle hand to his cheek, wanting to direct his attention to me, his sated and happy lover. “Sir, it’s quite all—”

He jerked his head from my grasp. “It’s bally well _not_ all right!” He rolled away from me, his cock still hard and flushed, bobbing against his stomach. “You’re bleeding like a stuck pig!”

I sat up and craned my head over my shoulder to survey the damage. The full length mirror in the corner of the room proved more helpful, however: my back was a field of long, red welts, some of which were welling up with tiny beads of blood.

“It only looks painful, sir,” I assured him. “I truly do not feel much more than a tingling sensation.” I refrained from saying just how glorious said sensation was, how it set my blood afire. I turned away from the mirror to address Mr Wooster once more, but the sight of him stayed my tongue.

He was seated on the edge of the mattress with his face in his hands, his shaking shoulders telegraphing his silent sobs to me. I instantly moved to his side, running my fingertips down the knobby line of his exposed vertebrae.

“Please, Bertram, don’t cry,” I said quietly.

“But I hurt you,” he said with a misery so intense, even his hands over his mouth could not muffle it.

“You did no such thing.”

His hands finally fell away from his face. “Of course I did,” he cried, still not meeting my eyes. “Just look at it!”

My heart broke for him. And I decided then that I would need to be brave for his sake; I had to tell him the truth. It could be no worse, I thought, than the moment I had finally confessed my feelings for him. That awful moment, when I was not yet convinced he would accept me. That he would not pick up the telephone and order the police to arrest me. That he would not dismiss me forever.

So I collected my courage and cleared my throat. “Bertram,” I said, “you must have noticed: I very much enjoyed it.” To illustrate, I touched his soft belly, running my fingers through the sticky mess I’d left on his fair skin.

Mr Wooster shuddered and grabbed my hand, stopping its progress down his body. “Jeeves.” He still would not look at me. “Perhaps it would be best if we slept apart tonight.”

His words could not have hurt me more had they been bullets. My hand trembled slightly, and I pulled it from his grasp. My throat worked, but I could formulate no appropriate response. There seemed to be nothing left to say, so I said, “Very good, sir.”

And I left the bedroom for what I imagined would be the last time.

Back in my quarters, I cleaned my wounds as best I could with a washcloth, dabbing some balm on the worst scratches. The bleeding seemed to have stopped, but I didn’t bother to check thoroughly; I donned my nightwear and crawled into my lonely bed, tamping down on the pain in my heart. How stupid I had been, how absolutely stupid. For all my prodigious proselytising about the psychology of the individual, I had blatantly ignored all signs of my master’s disgust with my true nature. Had it not been enough that he welcomed my inversion? Had I really been so naive to think he would accommodate my dark needs as well? What madness! What arrogance!

I did not sleep that night, only berated myself silently, biting my white knuckles to keep from crying out in utter agony at the loss of my friend and lover. I shed my tears into my thin pillow and waited for daylight, which, I thought, would no doubt bring my master’s formal dismissal.

In the early pre-dawn hour, I heard the master bedroom door creak open, followed by Mr Wooster’s footsteps heading toward my lair. I shut my eyes and feigned sleep, wishing (perversely, I suppose) to prolong the painful end to our union. My door opened, and I felt the mattress shift as Mr Wooster sat lightly on its edge.

“Jeeves?” he said quietly. I did not immediately answer, unsure of what I would face if I did. “Jeeves, I know you’re awake. Please. I must talk to you.”

I considered keeping my eyes closed, perhaps staying there in that bed indefinitely, but logic overruled that childish impulse and I turned my head to look at my employer. He was wearing his dressing gown, his normally bright eyes heavy and bruised-looking, his hair in terrible tangles as if he’d been tearing at it all night. My heart twinged in my chest; I wished to God I could do something to ease his strain.

“Yes, sir?”

“I must apologise for my behavior last night,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Sir, you needn’t—”

“It was a beastly thing, scratching you up like that,” he continued regardless of my protest. “It’s not at all the way a gentleman should treat his bed-mate, and it certainly isn’t how a Wooster should treat his—” He stopped, seemingly choked of breath for a moment. “—his life’s love.”

I could no longer stand to see the pain in his eyes. I folded him into my arms. “Oh, my only,” I murmured.

“I can’t bear the thought of it, Jeeves!” he said into my chest, his voice rumbling next to my heart. “I love you more than anything in this whole world. And I hurt you.”

For a moment, I wanted to say, “Let us forget it ever happened.” It would have been easy to direct Mr Wooster to cast the incident from his mind, to pretend it had only been an insignificant aberration in our stainless relationship. But something within me _knew_ that if I held my tongue now, I would be doing so for the rest of my life. And if there was even the slightest chance that I could take this misery away from my master and grant him the pleasure we both needed, then I would.

“Sir,” I asked, “may I speak freely?”

He sniffed against my lapel. “Of course.”

“I have spent the entire night,” I said, “thinking you would throw me out on the street this morning.”

“What!?” He reeled back from me, his mouth wide open. “No! I would never— I was just so afraid that I might—”

“I understand now.” I kissed his fingertips in a gesture of apology. “I only mean to impress upon you, sir, how hopeless I considered the situation. When you ordered me from your room last night...Bertram, I thought you had stopped loving me because of what I am. And I must tell you exactly what that is.” I hung my head, my cheeks aflame. “I am the lowest creature that exists,” I whispered.

Warm, gentle hands cupped my face. “Jeeves, no, don’t talk like this.”

“I am even worse than an invert,” I continued. “I am a perverse, horrible thing. I crave the exact opposite of what you give me, even though what you give is more than I deserve.” I looked up at him with tears in my eyes. “When you made me bleed last night, I thought I would die from happiness. It felt so wonderful, so—”

Tears spilled over Mr Wooster’s cheeks. “Jeeves, stop,” he pleaded. My heart sank; I had been wrong to speak my mind.

I hid my face in my hands. “I am sorry. I understand that these cravings go against your nature, sir. I swear to you, I will do whatever I can to ensure this side of my character is buried. It is not fair to you if—”

My master kissed me then, his tears slipping down his face to patter on my forearms. This kiss was not a gentle one; it forced me back against the headboard, my skull clanging on the iron bars. Mr Wooster paused then, a worried look on his beautiful face.

“Oh, damn it! Jeeves, are you—?”

Before he could finish, I was yanking him to me by the collar of his dressing gown, kissing him even more deeply. When we finally broke for air, he panted, “If you’re the lowest thing on the planet, Jeeves, then count me lower. I—I think I might be like you. In addition to being an invert, I mean.” He screwed up his face in concentration. “Well, not quite like you. I mean to say, I think I enjoyed scratching you as much as you enjoyed being scratched. And it scared the excrescence out of me.”

“Oh, sir,” I breathed, clutching him to me. “Please tell me it’s true. Please tell me you’re not merely doing me yet another kindness without regard for yourself.”

“No, Jeeves. It’s not an act.” He dropped a kiss on my forehead. “I just, well, I just don’t know how it all works. That is, how can I love you like the dickens on the one hand and want to...to hurt you on the other?”

I kissed him. “Because you know it isn’t hurting me. It’s giving me pleasure. And I will beg for it if I must.”

The fire in his eyes was unmistakable. “Beg, eh?”

I was on my knees on the floor in an eye-blink, my body quicker than my mind in this, the manifestation of my darkest fantasies. My palms found my master’s bare knees under his dressing gown.

“Indeed,” I growled. I slipped my hands upward to untie the knot in the dressing gown’s belt, but my progress was stopped by my master’s hands in my hair. He pulled (pulled!) at my hair enough to make me gasp.

“Come now, Jeeves,” he said with a glint in his expressive eyes. “You don’t actually think you’ll be earning that treat so easily, do you? You promised me some begging, and begging I shall receive.”

A strange feeling overtook me. I felt so unlike myself, as if I were watching myself in a dream. This could not be Reginald Jeeves, kneeling on the cold floor. This could not be Reginald Jeeves, rubbing his cheek along his master’s thigh like an over-sized house cat. This could not be Jeeves, whimpering, “Oh, please, sir, allow me to taste your cock; I will do anything you ask of me. Please, I want it so very much.”

A light slap stung me across the left cheek. I looked up at my master with what I’m sure was an expression of complete surprise. His amused smirk showed me just how much my reaction pleased him. “Calm yourself, Jeeves,” he said. “This isn’t about what _you_ want, is it?”

And just like that, it became clear to me why we were playing this filthy game: all my life, my every waking moment was dedicated to taking charge, being in control of the most unusual situations, and exerting my will to the desired conclusion. Here, now, with Mr Wooster, I could finally let go. I did not have to be responsible, nor clever, nor resourceful. I could just simply be.

I felt a great weight lift from my shoulders at the realisation. I would be the clay in Mr Wooster’s very imaginative hands.

“Of course, sir. You are correct.” I bowed my head. “Tell me your will.”

The next few hours were some of the most joyous I have ever experienced. Much of the time was spent relearning each other’s bodies as viewed from this new lens of pain and pleasure. For example, I would have never known Mr Wooster desired me to lick at the backs of his knees if he hadn’t forced my head down into the crook of his legs and demanded my tongue. And Mr Wooster would have never been aware of my weakness for being struck across the arse with a flat hand (the better to hear the loud CRACK of the blow) if he hadn’t tried all the possible permutations. You must understand, it was not just the pain Mr Wooster inflicted upon my person that excited me; it was the knowledge that he could do anything to me, that anything could happen next, that I couldn’t control what was being done to me any more than a rosebush can control the rain.

Finally, after hours of exquisite torture, Mr Wooster stood naked in my small room and coaxed my mouth to his waiting cock. I knelt before him and sucked as well as I knew how while being dizzy with desire. I had pleasured my master orally in the past, of course, but as I’ve intimated before, that type of lovemaking was very restrained. Mr Wooster, for instance, had expressed his dislike for coming off in my mouth, as he considered it would be “too bally messy for you, old thing.” Now, however, my master seemed to have no qualms with the act; he drove himself down my throat with animal grunts, clutching the back of my head in such a way as to press my nose into the dark, musky hair at the base of his cock.

“Do you want my seed, Jeeves?” he snarled, dragging my head back to free my mouth enough to form an answer.

“Yes, sir,” I coughed.

“D’you want it in your mouth?” He was fisting his cock now inches from my nose. I watched, fascinated.

“Yes, sir.”

“Will you swallow all of it?”

“Yes, sir.” My voice was now a mere whisper.

“Why should I let you, Jeeves?” he asked, his gaze burning into my very core.

I looked up at him, feeling the aches in my neck and shoulder, my back and knees, the tender, pink skin of my arse. And I answered as best I could. “I love you, sir.”

His eyes rolled back in his head; he grasped my chin in his free hand. “Open,” was all he managed to say before he was coming off in long, thick streams that I caught on my tongue. Wave after wave of seed was wrung from my master’s body, and he shuddered and quaked so much, I felt it necessary to clamp my hands round his hips to keep him from toppling over. When it was done, and I’d swallowed all I had been given, I guided Mr Wooster to take a seat on my nearby straight-backed desk chair. He was out of breath and sweating profusely, and I used the time he needed to recover his wits to lick clean his cock with small, gentle swipes.

His fingers wove themselves through my hair in thanks. After several minutes, he finally spoke in a shaky voice, “Good Lord, Jeeves.”

I hummed in agreement against his calf.

“I never knew it could feel like that.” His fingers continued petting their way through my hair. “Not that I didn’t have corking times with you before. It’s only— Good Lord,” he repeated.

I closed my eyes with a contented sigh. I had already come off the previous hour, rubbing against a pillow while Mr Wooster slapped my exposed bottom. Now that I had helped him find his own pleasure, I felt wonderfully calm, weightless. Almost peaceful.

“We need to be very careful, Jeeves,” Mr Wooster said.

“Certainly, sir,” I murmured with sleep in my voice. “I’m sure we will take precautions to ensure I have no visible marks on my person. It should not be difficult, as my usual clothing will conceal me well.”

“No, Jeeves, I meant—” Mr Wooster’s hand rested on the top of my head. “We must be careful with each other. There is a line somewhere in all this that we can’t cross; dashed if I know where it is. But I don’t want to be the evil chap who beats the staff any more than you want to be the valet who takes orders from a violent master. Do you see what I mean?”

I tilted my head to meet his gaze. “You see the need, then, to keep this aspect of our lives separate from our usual day-to-day activities. A clear delineation, where we do not exist as master and servant in the bedroom, but lovers who happen to enjoy certain types of lovemaking,” I clarified.

My master nodded. “That’s the ticket. We can’t have this,” he gestured to the space between us, “bleeding into you serving me dinner or me paying your wages.”

“We have always kept our relationship apart from the rest of the world, sir. I agree that we should continue to do so, not only for the health of our new-found understanding, but to keep our secret safe.”

“Jolly good.” He leaned down and pressed a kiss to my face. “Now what do you say to a shared bath? I could use a long soak.”

Those who knew him, or thought they knew him, would never believe Mr Wooster capable of the things I soon experienced at his hands. It seemed wholly unlike his character to inflict pain, for in his public life he was motivated only to do good.

Nevertheless, it was true. My master had always been an adept storyteller, and he used those skills to direct our fantasies. They began as simple roles to be played out. “Pretend you are the brash student, Jeeves, and I am the dour don,” he would say, and I would allow the story to progress as he told it. This playacting became more elaborate (and a more pleasurable experience for us both) as we became more comfortable in our sensual games. But Mr Wooster was more than the architect of my desire; he possessed an uncanny ability to know exactly what I needed before even I did.

One afternoon, for instance, I exited the kitchen after hearing furniture scraping on the carpet. I found Mr Wooster in the sitting room, shoving the chesterfield and the rest of the room’s trappings away from the center of the floor. I coughed into my fist, and he glanced up at me.

“Ah, Jeeves! Could you possibly move the piano bench for me, old thing?” He indicated the bench with a jut of his chin.

I obliged with a raised brow. “May I ask, sir, why we are rearranging the sitting room?”

“I thought we might have a bit of sport.” He looked up from the armchair he was levering into a corner and waggled his eyebrows at me.

“Sport, sir?” I surveyed the cosy sitting room, now in disarray. Did he mean to play golf or cricket in the flat? I shuddered to think of what would happen to our vases and picture frames.

“Yes, sport.” Mr Wooster pushed the coffee table away from the middle of the room, completing his task with a dusting off of his hands. “Here’s what I’m thinking. Suppose we’re two normal chaps, perhaps we’ve grown up in the same town. Perhaps we were at school together. We’re quite chummy, I mean to say.” He approached me slowly, grasping my necktie in his hand and coiling it round his fist. I leaned in obediently, accepting his forceful kiss with a small moan.

“We’ve always cavorted about at each other’s side,” he continued in a voice low like smoke. “And today, though we’re much too old to be horsing around anymore, I’ve challenged you to a bit of a wrestling match.”

I grimaced, sending a concerned glance round the sitting room. “Really, sir, I don’t think—”

“Tut, Jeeves.” He held up one finger and I snapped my mouth shut. “You must let me finish. I’ve challenged you, as I’ve said, to a wrestling match. But I’m very insistent that we conduct ourselves as classically as possible. And so, for this friendly game, we must wrestle as the Greek chappies did.” He grinned at me. “In the altogether.”

I quivered inwardly, though my brain was still unyielding to my master’s request. The thought of tumbling about the flat pressed up against my naked lover held great appeal, but I was concerned that my superior height and weight would not allow the game to stray into the proper territory.

“Sir,” I said with great tact, “I’m uncertain I could lose in a wrestling match between us, even if I tried with all my might.”

Mr Wooster gave a shocked huff of laughter. “Do you, now? Well, I suppose we’ll just see!” He took a step backward and began stripping off his suit coat and tie. “You will call me Wooster throughout the proceedings, Jeeves, as we’re close chums, what? Unless, of course, I convince you to call me something else.”

His bravado threatened to lift the corner of my lips into a smile, I admit. I resolved to humour my darling master and give him the show he wanted. I divested myself of my uniform with all due speed and stood in the emptied sitting room.

“What are the terms of the match, Wooster?” It felt strange to use his surname like that, but he had ordered me to do so. I felt myself slipping into this play, as ridiculous as the whole situation seemed.

“The winner must extract a surrender from the loser,” Mr Wooster answered with a nod. He dropped his drawers to the floor in a messy heap, standing quite proudly with his hands on his slim hips. I was growing more worried that, even if our rough-housing was only in jest, I might seriously injure him.

I shook my head. “I’m not certain we should—”

His opening gambit caught me by surprise, as he launched himself at my torso with little regard for his own safety. I can only assume Mr Wooster was betting on my instincts to act in his favour without a second thought, which is exactly what I did. His arms caught me round my middle and I went down spectacularly.

The air rushed from my body, even as I reveled in the rug burn on my abused shoulder. “That’s cheating, Wooster!” I managed to wheeze.

“No, that’s winning, Jeeves.” He shoved my shoulders to the ground, and I recovered my wits just in time to buck him off my thighs. I gained the upper hand, clamouring onto his prone body and clasping his wrists in my hands, but my dominance lasted only for a moment. With a wiry strength I did not know he possessed, my master rolled us across the floor and reversed our position again. Disoriented and panting for breath, I tried to squirm from his grasp, but Mr Wooster wrapped his arms and legs round me, his chest to my back, pinning my limbs completely.

“Surrender, Jeeves?” he asked with a light-hearted chuckle in my ear. He groped along my chest, pinching my tight nipples between his fingernails, scratching along my flanks. I shivered and struggled, still not giving in to him.

As I fought his torturing embrace, I felt his cock harden against my backside. I understood then what he wanted me to see: he did not wish for my complete subservience in our little games. Seeing my struggle ignited his blood more than mere cowering ever could. There is no honour, after all, in overpowering an opponent who does not fight back.

My arms strained to free myself as Mr Wooster played with my body the way he did a musical instrument. His clever fingers travelled down my stomach, tugging at the trail of crisp hair there. His touch became lazy, circling my cockstand and dipping to caress my bollocks again and again. I flopped like a landed fish, wordlessly begging for his touch, my hips snapping forward of their own volition.

“Now will you admit I’ve won?” His hot tongue licked the back of my ear, and I shook my head in unsteady jerks, determined to resist. “Very well.” His long legs came up, his ankles hooking round my knees, and he pulled my legs apart so that I was spread wide. I made a small noise in the very back of my throat.

His thick cock pressed against me, slick and solid against my exposed hole. Never before had Mr Wooster touched me in this fashion. As I’ve indicated, our previous unsatisfying encounters had no room for penetration of any kind; it had never been addressed, and so we had ignored the option altogether. But now Mr Wooster was miming the act quite clearly. Panic rose in my chest: I was not ready, I was not prepared, surely he would not take me without the proper steps. I went stock-still, as did he.

“You forfeit, Jeeves?” he whispered into my ear. I realised my eyes were squeezed shut, leaving only the sensations of his hot skin and his fiery words.

“Yes,” I said, my voice strangled.

“What shall I take for my winnings?” Again, his cock pressed up into me, just the very tip, forcing a gasp from my lungs.

Dear Lord, I thought. He would. He would take me right here on the carpet. My own erection twitched violently, dribbling liquid across my belly. “I— Wooster—” I said with some difficulty.

His arms tightened round my chest, robbing me of breath. “You will address me as ‘sir,’” he hissed, “now that we’ve established I am your better.”

“Yes, sir,” I responded quickly. “Of course, sir. Whatever pleases you, sir.” I sagged against him in defeat and attempted to calm my breathing. If I could only relax fully, I told myself, Mr Wooster might be able to take me with little permanent damage. But how could I relax when the mere thought of the thing turned me into a living castanet?

“Jeeves.” His gentle touch to my face brought me out of our fantasy. My eyes blinked open, looking down at where his arm was still wrapped across my chest. “Did you really think I hadn’t planned for this?” His arm left me for a moment, and he felt along the floor until he found something under the chesterfield. We waved the little bottle of oil before my nose. “I’m a pervert, but I’m certainly not _cruel_ ,” he said.

I had no words. I could only hope, as he touched me with his slick fingers, that my cries did my joy justice. I writhed on the floor as he plied me with his pianist’s fingers, in and out, making filthy noises as they worked into me wetly. This continued for an hour or more, until I finally came off without a single touch to my aching cock. Afterward, Mr Wooster poured me ice water and sat with me until I could stand, which was quite some time later.

And so it went on, our lovemaking becoming more daring, our hearts becoming more entwined as we discovered untold depths in each other. One night in particular remains burned in my memory: my master gave in to one of my more urgent requests and nipped at me with his sharp, white teeth until I was fairly covered with bites.

Mr Wooster refused to draw blood from me (“I need to control myself, Jeeves, and that’s where I must stop.”) but he sucked and bit at my tender skin until it turned red and purple in large patches. Each mark I received was like being gifted with a precious jewel; each one sent a frisson of pleasure coursing through my body, leaving me in a state of near-madness. So delirious was I that when Mr Wooster held aloft a small paddle (of the kind one might use in a game of table tennis), I reacted wrongly. But the grip of the fantasy was strong on my mind, and I was too mired in our game to think.

“Please, sir, no,” I mewled at his feet. “You torture me, you abuse me! Have mercy!” I vaguely remember this being a ploy to please him with some token resistance.

But his tight grip on my hair wavered. “J-Jeeves?” His voice was unsteady. “Do you wish me to stop?”

I looked up at him with wild eyes. “Sir, it is my most fervent wish that you continue!”

“Honestly?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Damn it all.” He sat on his nearby footstool with a sigh and dropped the paddle to the ground. “I really did think I had gone too far that time, and that you couldn’t take much more.”

I scrambled to my feet, suddenly ashamed of my bruised body. “I assure you, sir, I was only caught up in the spirit of our play.”

My master scrubbed a hand over his weary face. “Yes, but how am I to know, Jeeves? What if one evening I strike you too hard or bite you too much or, or—?”

I made room for myself on the footstool and wrapped him in my arms. “I will alert you in such an event, though I doubt you could ever reach that point.”

“Yes but!” Mr Wooster gave an explosive grunt of frustration. “If you say no then, how can I tell you’re not pretending to say no as you were just now? It’s a lot of pressure to put on a chap, Jeeves, to ferret out the difference!”

My heart softened. Even as I was learning to put my trust in him, he was learning to be trusted. I pondered the circumstances for a moment, then said, “Sir, it seems prudent for your peace of mind that we agree on some signal, something that is not the word ‘no’ but would be our own private version of it. The signal would be my way of communicating true distress. Then I might be able to beg and plead all I wanted, and you would know it was only part of our game.”

Mr Wooster perked up at the suggestion. “Bally clever of you, Jeeves! What do you say? One of these?” He crossed his index fingers into an X. “That’s fairly simple.”

“A good beginning, sir. But what of my hands? They may be bound.”

Pressed against his side as I was, I felt him shiver at the thought. “Ah, oh, yes, there is that. A secret phrase, then, for those times when your hands are, erm, occupied?”

“It must be something I would never normally utter during our lovemaking,” I said. We thought in silence for a space of time.

“Eulalie?” Mr Wooster finally offered.

I favoured him with a slight smile, but countered, “I was considering ‘Agincourt,’ sir.”

“Much better, Jeeves,” he declared, kissing me as a reward. And then I retrieved the paddle from the floor and slid it back into his hand, humming innocently as I did so.

The next day, between the bites and the paddling to my arse, I was a study in black, blue, pink, red, and purple. I was most grateful that I would be serving Mr Wooster and his guests, Mr Little, Mr Winship, and Mr Fittleworth, for luncheon, as it necessitated I stand throughout the event; I did not imagine I could sit comfortably.

My master entertained his guests with his usual charm as I stood by, waiting on the party. If Mr Wooster was plagued with memories of what we had shared the night before, it did not register on his countenance. Then again, I mused, he had the distractions of his friends to contend with, while I had very little to occupy my mind at the moment. Every small shift in my stance reignited the ache in my back and arse. The more painful of the bites throbbed at the base on my neck, and every breath I took reminded me of how Mr Wooster’s mouth had felt on my heated skin. I closed my eyes briefly to bask in the memory.

“Jeeves? I say, Jeeves, are you still with us, old man?” Mr Fittleworth’s baritone sliced through my reverie, and my eyes flew open. Every one of the attendees was staring at me; I must have been unresponsive for some time. Mr Wooster looked especially worried.

I coughed lightly. “My apologises, Mr Fittleworth, I fear my thoughts wandered. Please, allow me.” I lifted the carafe of wine from the sideboard and refilled his empty glass.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen _your_ thoughts wander, Jeeves,” Mr Little said. “Bertie has implied you are above such things.”

“Yes, well—” my master attempted to say.

“Egad! Would you look at that!” Mr Winship grasped my outstretched arm before I was able to pull away from the table. “Jeeves, your wrist is all black and blue.”

A horrid, cold feeling passed over me. I looked down and saw the gentleman was correct; one of the bite marks was just peeking out from my cuff. Calling upon all my powers of imperturbability, I managed to say, “It is but a small scratch, Mr Winship, though I appreciate your concern.” I withdrew my appendage with as much speed as I dared.

Mr Little chortled. “First he daydreams, and now this? I’m blowed! Who would have ever suspected your man was actually flesh and blood, not marble and whasit?” This he directed at Bertram, who smiled easily.

“Oh, do leave Jeeves alone, chaps. He’s been expending all his energy on getting Stiffy and Stinker out of the soup these past few days. You can’t hold it against him,” he said with not a trace of nerves. When had my master become such a skillful liar?

“Has it been a very dangerous endeavour? Is that how your arm got all banged up, Jeeves?” Mr Fittleworth squinted up at me.

“I’m afraid I cannot divulge much information, as the situation is of a delicate nature,” I said. “Excuse me, gentlemen.” And I exited into the kitchen.

I set down the carafe and gripped the solid edge of the counter top as tightly as I could. My whole frame was trembling like a leaf in a storm. My vision swam, so I shut my eyes. How could I have been so careless? They had seen the marks on my skin; they could probably smell the sex on my clothes. Even a fool could tell I had—

“Jeeves?” Mr Wooster spoke softly as he pushed open the kitchen door. He caught sight of me, brittle-near-breaking, and he was instantly at my side. “Are you—?”

He didn’t bother finishing his question; the answer was clear enough. With a sigh, he placed his palms over my hands and pried my fingers from their death grip on the counter. “You can’t fall apart now,” he said in a low voice.

“I know, sir. I am sorry,” I murmured. “It was a singular lapse; it will not happen again.”

“They don’t _realise_ , Jeeves. There’s no harm done. Why are you shaking like the dickens?”

I was unable to answer, as Mr Winship called for a cocktail in the dining room. I steeled myself and swept out of the room. I felt Mr Wooster’s eyes on me as I left him standing in the kitchen, but I did not look back.

I was able to complete my duties surrounding the afternoon’s activities as well as any valet could be expected to. But I did not take an easy breath until the the last guest was handed his walking stick and hat and was seen out.

When I closed the door behind Mr Winship, I shut my eyes and prayed for just a few minutes’ more strength. Undoubtedly I would need it to explain myself to my master.

“Jeeves.” Mr Wooster was standing very close behind me. “Maybe it would be best if you sat for a tick, what?”

“No thank you, sir.” I swept past him and continued to tidy up in the dining room. “I would prefer to see to my chores.” I began collecting the serving platters in a neat stack, but Mr Wooster’s hand on my shoulder stayed me.

“Clean all you like. But I really do feel you must tell me what’s the matter,” Mr Wooster said.

I sighed and set aside the platters. “We might have been caught,” I murmured.

“But we weren’t.”

“We might have been.”

“But we _weren’t_.”

I shook my head. “Does this not concern you at all, sir? Are you unaware of the punishments we would face if anyone knew?”

“Of course it bally well concerns me.” He framed my face in his hands, not without some force, and made me look him in the eye. “But I’m more concerned about the punishments you’re already heaping upon yourself, Jeeves.”

I had nothing to say to that; I cast my gaze downwards and excused myself with a whisper. I stayed in the kitchen for hours, scrubbing dishes and drying the glassware. When it was time to retire, Mr Wooster requested my presence in his bed, but we only donned our nightwear and slipped between the sheets. My master kissed me on the cheek and, with a quiet “Goodnight, Jeeves,” turned off the light and slept.

Sleep did not come for me until much later in the night.

The next few days disturbed me, for Mr Wooster made no move whatsoever to bestow amorous attentions upon me. There were times, of course, when our schedules did not allow for such activities, but to my knowledge there were no such barriers at the moment. My anxiety mounted once more; perhaps Mr Wooster had grown tired of our dark games?

At last I reached the limit of my patience, and I questioned my master on this turn of events as tactfully as I could.

“Oh, Jeeves, please do not think me uninterested,” he replied, dropping a kiss to my lips. “Just wait a little longer, old thing.”

Another day passed and my thoughts were in a whirl. I was waiting on tenterhooks, wondering what possible reason could exist for this change in our relations. I was returning from the market with my basket full of shopping when Mr Wooster provided the answer.

I had only just entered the flat and was about to lock the door behind me when something was thrown over my head: a sort of black cloth bag, I think. In my shock, I dropped my basket and felt the apples and bottles of tonic water rolling round my feet. I struck out at my phantom attacker, but my wrists were caught in a fierce grip, and I found my arms pinned to my sides.

“Don’t make me knock you out,” a voice hissed in my ear, and my heart stopped in my chest.

For one adrenaline-soaked moment, I believed this was it: I had finally been caught by the authorities. But I fought the fear that welled up within me so that I might take stock of the information available to my other senses: the sound of the voice, the scent of the other’s skin, the touch of his hands on my arms.

“Sir?” I asked in a strangled tone.

He pinched the taut skin of my bicep, and I winced in response. “Quiet! Now come along, if you know what’s good for you.”

I did not understand what Mr Wooster was playing at, but after weighing my options for a moment, I decided it was a worthwhile gamble to follow his lead and see where it might take us. So I allowed myself to be half-dragged down the hall with my vision still obscured.

We turned into what must have been the master bedroom, and I was stripped naked, each piece of my clothing removed dispassionately from my frame. Mr Wooster then shoved me onto a straight-backed chair, where I had my wrists bound behind me with rough rope. After all this, the black bag was removed from my head and I sat blinking in the dim light.

My confusion only grew, for I saw my master standing before me in a crisp, tailored police uniform. Not an ill-fitting fancy-dress police uniform, but one that almost appeared to suit him with its large brass buttons and starched epaulets.

“Reginald Jeeves,” he intoned, “I’ve been authorised to question you on the serious charge of gross indecency which has been brought against you.”

My mouth, I’m afraid, fell rather open. “Mr Wooster?”

His hand slapped me across the face, whipping my head to the side. “You will address me as Officer or sir!” he shouted. “I won’t answer to these fantastical names you’ve invented.”

I did not answer, did not look at him, only kept my head turned aside. I felt a cold sweat break out across my forehead and upper lip.

“Look at me,” he demanded, yanking me by the hair and forcing me to meet his gaze. “Do you deny the charges?”

My entire body was shaking. I was aware it was all just a game, that my master was no officer of the law, but this new scene he’d created disturbed me greatly. The thought of being captured like this was one that haunted me during my every waking hour.

I stared up into his eyes, but I said nothing.

“Speak!” Mr Wooster dug his fingers even further into my hair. I shut my eyes, my lips forming the first sounds of the word that could save me from this hell.

“Ah—”

Suddenly the cruel hand was gone, and my master stood behind me where I could not see him. His soft lips brushed against my nape, and he said, “Say ‘Agincourt’ and I swear I will put a stop to this, Jeeves. But please, love, I’m asking you to trust me. Try to see this through.”

I swallowed with some difficulty, my vision swimming before me. Finally, I gave a slow, measured nod.

Mr Wooster kissed my neck. “Brilliant,” he breathed, and then he transformed back into the heartless bobbie, strolling in front of me with his hands behind his back. “So you will not defend yourself against the charges?”

“What are my supposed crimes, Officer?” My voice is wrung from me like water from a cloth.

He draws his fingertips down my face and neck to my chest, and I do not have to feign my flinch. “I will list a few: disturbing the peace, warping the minds of young men, knowingly and flagrantly propagating the sodomite lifestyle—”

The words came before I had a chance to stop them, for I had often turned them over in my mind when I considered I might be arrested: “Who has accused me of being a sodomite? There is no proof of that, for it has never happened.”

Mr Wooster drew himself up. “You claim, then, to have never participated in the act of buggery?”

I squirmed in the unforgiving wooden chair, the rope chafing my hands. “If you refer to sexual intercourse of the anal variety, then you are correct: I am falsely accused.”

I could tell from the glint in his eye that my master approved. He stepped closer to me and stood between my spread knees. His hand petted leisurely up and down my flank.

“So you have never had a man’s cock in your arse, and you’ve never buggered a man yourself?”

My face heated to burning. “That is the truth,” I said. And it was. I had had lovers before Mr Wooster, of course, but as with him, I never bothered or allowed our relations to stray in that direction. I had thought the act held no interest for me, but now, sitting bound and being interrogated like this, I wondered if I had avoided buggery out of fear of reprisal.

My master crouched before me, and his hand went round my stiff prick. “But you’ve thought about it, surely. You’ve wanted to.”

I looked away, and for once, it was not part of the act. “I—”

“Look at how hard you’ve become just from hearing me talk about it, Mr Reginald Jeeves. What do you have to say for yourself?”

I whimpered as he fisted me once, twice, then ceased. “I—it is no crime to merely think a thing,” I managed to say.

Mr Wooster tipped his head in thought. “No, that is true.” He ran a considering fingertip down my bollocks. “I won’t be able to arrest you for just a thought. But...” His touch glided lower to tickle between my legs. “I do hate to have gone through all this trouble for nothing.”

My eyes widened of their own accord. The trajectory of this game was suddenly clear to me. “No,” I whispered shakily.

“Do you mean to say no,” my master asked with only a slight twinge of worry underneath his brash persona, “or do you mean to say some other word?”

I gulped. “Agincourt” was on my lips. Though my mind knew none of it was real, the dim light, the uniform, the strangeness of my master’s manner: it was as real as a nightmare feels when the dreamer is in its clutches.

Mr Wooster’s bright blue eyes met mine, though, and my fear abated. I had to trust him. He had never led me astray before.

I steeled myself and said, “No, Officer. Please just let me go.”

“Let you go?” My master’s hands were roaming my body now, swiping up and down my legs, running across my tense shoulders, touching the tip of my cock. “I can’t possibly unleash a dangerous deviant back on the streets. At least, not until I’m through with said deviant.”

I grasped the knotted ropes that bound my wrists, the better to keep my arms from trembling. “Perhaps,” I suggested in a low voice, “there is some service I can provide for you that might earn my freedom.”

Mr Wooster displayed a feral grin and bit down on my thigh, wrenching a groan of pleasure from me. “As if I couldn’t take whatever I wanted right now, with or without your permission,” he muttered against my skin. “You fool. I suppose I must add ‘attempted prostitution’ to your long list of offences.”

“No, please—” I protested, but was silenced by another bite to my hip. I sucked in my breath and waited.

“No speaking,” Mr Wooster ordered. “Behave like a good little invert and I just may let you off with a warning, hm?”

I nodded shakily. My master continued to touch and tease my body, all in the most heavy of silences. Our heavy breathing was the only noise in the dark room, and, I imagined, the pounding of my blood in my veins. He twisted my hard nipples between his fingernails; he nibbled at my twitching scrotum; he clawed his way across my belly until my entire body was vibrating with the need to be released from my bonds. I clenched my jaw lest my small noises of pain and desire escaped, and Mr Wooster completed his long torture with a rough kiss to my mouth.

He stood at his full height, his tented trousers now practically brushing my nose. “You must have cultivated a delicious mouth if you’ve kept your virgin arse this whole time,” he said gruffly. He tugged at my hair with one hand and unbuttoned his flies with the other. “Suck me.”

I shied away, trying to turn my face away from the hot, hard member now being rubbed against my lips. I knew such resistance would thrill Mr Wooster, and I was correct. He pulled me to him with a growl. “Do it or I’ll throw you in a cell and leave you there.”

He swiped the head of his cock against my cheek, leaving a trail of clear, sticky fluid behind. I allowed my internal struggle to show on my face before slowly, carefully taking his prick in my mouth.

“Yes,” my master hissed. He held my head and place and thrust his hips shallowly, his member sliding down my throat. I sucked at him as best I could, being unable to control the pace. After some minutes, he pulled his cock free and regarded me with a calculating eye.

“I know what I’m going to do with you,” he said. “Oh yes. You think you’re safe from the law with your stainless reputation?” He reached into the breast pocket of his uniform coat and produced a flick knife. It opened with a sharp _snick_ and I tried not to panic; Mr Wooster would never cut me, I told myself.

I was proven correct. My master stepped behind me and sliced the ropes from my wrists. I flexed my now-free arms tentatively, hoping to work out any stiffness. But my master gave me no time to acclimate; he grabbed me by the elbow and hauled me up to stand on my wobbly legs. My erection, which had been hard for what seemed like hours, leaked piteously as it bobbed in the air.

“On the bed. Face up.”

I complied as quickly as I could. I saw Mr Wooster had stripped his bed of all but the fitted sheet, leaving me with no pillows or bedclothes. I crawled onto the bed, chastising myself for the tremors in my limbs. I laid on my back and was about to pillow my head on my arms when Mr Wooster grabbed my bruised wrists.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” he chuckled. From his dressing table, he pulled two long lengths of silken rope. These were threaded underneath the bed so that each end of the silk could be tied to one of my wrists; the same was done to my ankles so that I was kept prostrate on the mattress.

“How should I make you into a criminal? Shall I bugger you or have you commit the buggery?” Mr Wooster pretended to consider the matter, tapping his fingers against his lips.

I watched him closely, trying to lift my head as far as I could to see him. I did not offer an answer, for I knew it would not matter; the choice was not mine, and I cannot express how freeing that was. Still, I was anxious about what Mr Wooster would decide.

He was in no hurry, though. He undressed with a cheerful whistle, discarding his trousers, shoes, and socks. He unbuttoned his uniform coat and left it hanging open, revealing no underthings beneath. I couldn’t help but lick my lips; his wiry, pale body was so deceptive in its beauty. The things he could do with that body....

Mr Wooster climbed onto the bed and straddled my hips. His bottle of oil appeared from his coat pocket, and he uncorked it with a flourish. I shuddered in anticipation at the smell of it as a dog might salivate at the smell of food. My master noticed my reaction, grinning widely.

“I didn’t think your cock could get any stiffer, but just look.” He poured a liberal amount of oil into his palm. “You’re lucky an officer of the law is taking you under his wing; who knows what tramps you might have fucked had I not gotten to you first?”

This coarse language, which would sound so foreign in my master’s mouth, was almost musical coming from this disreputable character he was playing. I writhed beneath him, loving his insults and his cruel teasing.

“Yes, yes,” I moaned, earning a warning slap against my thigh.

“Still no talking until I say, Jeeves,” he advised. I clamped my mouth shut.

His fingers travelled behind him, past my aching cock to play at my puckered hole. I shivered; so he would finally take me, I thought. I basked in the knowledge, opening my legs even wider for his touch.

But then, still cupping the vial of oil, Mr Wooster slicked up his free hand before casting the bottle aside. I watched, mesmerised, as he lifted himself up on his knees slightly and began preparing himself as well. His head tipped back, exposing the white column of his throat, his moan echoing through the quiet room. He worked his fingers into both of us, his right hand on me, his left on himself.

My confusion needed no words; my eyes were wide and my breathing quick. My master lifted an eyebrow at me in surprise.

“Stumped, are you? Well, it just goes to show, some chaps are more creative than others.” He pressed that tissue within me that made me cry out despite my efforts to remain silent. “I think you’re almost ready, what?”

Removing his fingers from us both, he crawled across me to reach his dressing table drawer. After rummaging for a moment, he brandished a dark grey vulcanised rubber instrument shaped unmistakably like an erect penis. I had thought modern rubber dildos were available only in the more lax countries like Italy and France; where in the world had Mr Wooster found it, I wondered.

“Astounding what a resourceful bobbie can find in the shops these days,” he remarked, returning to kneel between my spread legs. “Are you quite scandalised, Jeeves?”

I turned my blushing face away from the sight: my master, flushed and beautiful, a wicked grin on his lips, the dildo in his hands, being coated in oil. “Yes,” I whispered.

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, Officer.”

“Good.”

He bent his head to examine me, and I felt an even greater rush of sweet, sweet shame course through me at the attention. The dildo pressed against me, thick and strange, before being pushed in, little by little. I keened and thrashed in fits and jerks, like a wild animal trapped in a snare. Soon, nearly the entire length of the thing was within me; Mr Wooster wiggled the end lightly, causing sparks to flash in my vision. I cried out mindlessly, and he laughed at my expense.

“Now that you’re filled, I’ll use you to fill myself,” he said, straddling me once more. “Don’t try to move. I will take my pleasure from you as I like.” He grasped my cock in his hand and guided it to his own slick hole. “You’ll be my toy, just like that rubber whatsit.”

“Oh yes,” I whispered, at last breaching his body. I now felt so idiotic for shying away from this form of lovemaking. How could I have known, though, how wonderful it could be? The dual sensations of the rubber dildo inside me and Mr Wooster’s body around me were more than I could bear; it was a bliss I had never imagined. I was being used, taken, toyed with, ravaged: I loved every bit of it.

My master was now fully seated on my cock, his bollocks resting at the base of it, his arse clenching at me like a vise. His eyes were shut tight as if to savour the moment, and he reached back to twist the dildo in me. My wrists and ankles strained against their bonds, and though I relished being bound and helpless beneath my clever lover, I wished to God I could touch him.

“How does it feel, Jeeves?” Bertram asked me in his darkest voice. He lifted himself up, then slammed back down on my prick.

I bit back a howl. “E-exquisite, sir.”

He pulled the rubber toy out of me, then plunged it back in, keeping in time with his own movements. “You will come off when I tell you to?”

“Yes, sir!”

“You’re about to, aren’t you?” In, out. Up, down. In, out, up, down.

“Oh please! Yes!”

Mr Wooster pressed the dildo into me just so, saying, “Do it then.”

My body went rigid, red hot, weightless and wonderful. I arched up into Mr Wooster with all my might, releasing my seed into him. My entire frame twitched violently, and the dildo was forced from my body in the process. Mr Wooster rode me until the waves of pleasure had passed completely, then petted my sweat-damp chest with a soothing hand.

“Relaxed, old thing?” he asked. It appeared he was dropping the bobbie persona completely. The uniform coat was shed and tossed to the floor, leaving him completely nude.

“Oh sir,” I panted, staring at him through my mussed hair.

“Are you perhaps relaxed enough,” he lifted himself off my softening member with a small wince, “to let me try something else?”

He could have, at that moment, suggested we journey to the deserts of Mongolia with all of his aunts and I would have agreed. I was too boneless and content to refuse.

“I am your pliant servant,” I said with a half-smile.

An answering, angelic smile. “Topping.”

He untied the silken ropes from my ankles and wrists, and I moved my sore limbs with a groan. I sat up, my head swimming. My master waited patiently for me to adjust; he knelt on the mattress, his still-hard cock jutting out.

“Hands and knees, Jeeves,” he directed. “I’d like to take you now.”

I did not hesitate for a moment. I arranged myself for him, looking over my shoulder to see his approving glance at my derriere. His finger ran down the crack of it, still slick from all the oil and the remnants of my seed.

“You should be nicely relaxed for me now,” he murmured. “Though, well, Jeeves— You know we don’t need to—”

I said nothing, merely placed my head down on the mattress so that my bottom lifted high in the air, awaiting my master’s pleasure.

He gave it a light slap in gratitude. “Right,” he breathed.

After enjoying my release, the carnal act was not as sharp and immediate for me. I could take my pleasure more leisurely, reveling in the feel of my master draping himself over my back, or prying my legs farther apart, or biting my shoulder blade. I could sigh and enjoy the slow and steady pace of Bertram as he took me, and the crescendo to the pounding he gave me, his bollocks slapping against me deliciously. I could feel his blood humming in his body, could sense his impending orgasm, could moan at the dirty, luxurious feel of his seed dripping between my legs.

“Oh Jeeves,” Mr Wooster cried as he came off, clutching at me hard enough to bruise. I pressed back into him, riding the sensation.

That night, we slept on the almost-bare bed, too exhausted to remake it. Bertram pillowed his head on my aching shoulder, and I curled my arm round him.

“Thank you,” I said into the dark, thinking he had drifted off to sleep already.

“For what, Jeeves?” he asked in a slur.

I thought for a moment to formulate my response. “For showing me that my greatest fear is....”

“Rubbish?” he supplied.

I frowned. “No, not rubbish. Of course I will still be a cautious man; I must be. But—”

“But now you see that even if the very worst happens,” he trailed his fingers through the crisp hairs on my chest, “they could beat you, humiliate you, put you on trial, throw you in gaol. But they can never take away this moment. What we have, Jeeves, right now, no one can steal that from us.”

I kissed his brow. “I am so lucky, sir. And I love you very much.”

“Love you too, old thing.” He kissed my nearby nipple.

I was just about to fall asleep when he added, “Besides, you’d probably get a kick out of being beaten and all, what?”

I nipped at his neck, and he retaliated in kind, and we did not actually sleep for a very long time.

 

 

 

fin

 

 

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> 
> Whew! That was REALLY difficult, I'm not gonna lie. I was really worried how I was going to turn sweet little Bertie into a leather daddy whip master! But now that's it's done, I think I can safely say this is one of the fics I am most proud of. A personal favorite, I guess. It doesn't have to be yours! I'm just saying I'm really happy with it. I hope you are too!

>  

 

 


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